Devilishly Wicked (24 page)

“Ah, Mrs. Harris’s building,” she said, letting this charade that they didn’t really know each other continue.

“She works with me.”

Mona knew that Mrs. Harris was his secretary, and that she preferred to use that old-fashioned job title instead of the more twenty-first century Administrative Assistant. But Mona appreciated that Dan said Mrs. Harris worked “with” him, and not “for” him, even if that was technically true. She took it as a touching show of respect.

“Mrs. Harris is one of my best customers,” Mona said, as if Mrs. Harris had not been planting the seed for this conversation for the past several years.

“I know,” he sighed.

“You want to try something?” she asked. “On the house.” His gaze flicked down her body again, then quickly back up to her eyes.
Ha,
she thought.
Do that again,
her belly said.

“No, thanks, I’m not much of a sweets person,” he said as his eyes lingered over the fruit tarts.

She shrugged. “A little sugar could do you some good.”

“Why are you only out here once a month?”

It was a question she got a lot from customers, and she was pretty good at deflecting it. But most people just asked out of polite curiosity or because they wanted her to feed their sugar cravings more often. Ever since she’d started Apple of My Pie—even when it was just an idea and a hatchback—Dan had been up her butt about making it more permanent. He just wouldn’t let it go, and here he was again. He didn’t even know if her goodies were good enough for a full-time business!

It made her hackles rise. It made her defensive.

Because she had a feeling he wouldn’t take polite deflection for an answer, that he wouldn’t stop until he got the truth.

He couldn’t handle the truth.

The truth was, she was cursed.

It had to do with the moon. Every full moon, she baked. No, that was an understatement. Her baking skills erupted into an almost maniacal inspiration around the full moon such that she could not ignore them, compelling her to bake and bake and bake. She couldn’t do anything but bake—she couldn’t read, she couldn’t check her e-mail, she could barely sleep. She definitely couldn’t hold down a regular nine-to-five job—not unless she would be allowed to take a few days off a month. To bake. When the moon told her to.

She was grateful, usually. Her curse gave her a talent that enabled her to do something she loved to make an okay living. But in moments of self-pity—usually about halfway between full moons—she began to feel that maybe her full-moon inspired baking bursts were holding her back. She would never be able to open a real shop, or make more than her modest living. She didn’t want riches—although she wouldn’t turn down some sparkly jewelry—but it would be nice to know that she could pay both her mortgage and the electric on time without scraping under the couch cushions for lost change.

Sometimes, she just wanted to be normal. Khaki normal.

It didn’t matter. Her grandmother had the curse, and
her
mother before that, and they passed it on to Mona’s father, who, with typical Dad-efficiency, tried freezing his pies and tarts to be able to enjoy them throughout the month. But full moon baked goods don’t freeze well. They don’t keep at all. She learned that you just have to get them while you can, and enjoy them while you got ’em.

It took her father a long time to accept that, but it was a lesson he made sure Mona learned. And she had. So, yes, there were times when she wanted to be normal. But her curse had forced her to create a life for herself that was unique and satisfying, one that left her exhausted during the full moon, but with plenty of free time to foster friendships, volunteer around the community, and use her non-baking talents to make people happy. It wasn’t perfect, but no life was.

And this guy, she thought as she stared down Dan the Accountant, King of the Khakis, this guy comes up here and accuses me of laziness. That’s what he was doing. He wasn’t the first one. Her curse wasn’t commonly known— outside of her family, only her best friend Trish knew, and she was sworn to secrecy. A lot of people found it strange that her work schedule was so . . . flexible. (When in reality, it was more rigid than they knew—she was at the mercy of the moon, after all.) But something about this guy, with his obsessive routine and his smart-looking briefcase, really pissed her off. Mrs. Harris told her he hadn’t ever eaten anything from Apple of My Pie, at least not that she’d seen. So what did he even care!

And the fact that his blue eyes nearly crackled with fire when he confronted her, that pissed her off, too. Those were some really nice eyes. The nerve of those eyes.

“Wouldn’t you make more money if you didn’t have such a capricious business model?”

Mona stood up straight. She was short enough that she never towered over anyone, but she towered over him now, her inside the food truck, him on the sidewalk down below.

“What’s it to you how much money I make?”

He flushed. Good, she thought.

“Maybe I don’t need to make money,” she said, leaning back down. “Maybe I’m a baking empire heiress, just slumming in Ohio.” Uh-oh, she thought. Her imagination tended to go wild when she was mad. And her mouth tended not to be able to stop it. “Maybe my business is backed by a handsome desert sheikh who tasted a slice of my apple pie and decided he had to have me all to himself, but once a month he sets me free into the world as long as I promise to return to him in his desert lair.”

His eyebrows went up. “Desert lair?”

“Yeah, a desert lair.”

“In Ohio?”

Stupid logic. She wanted to disarm him, badly. “You think I couldn’t get a desert sheikh?”

Down his eyes went, again. She wanted to tease him, ask him if he had a muscle spasm or something. But she sort of liked it. Dan the Accountant did not seem like the kind of guy who was out of control very often. The power to unnerve him was sort of intoxicating.

Not that it meant anything. Despite Mrs. Harris’s assertions to the contrary, Khaki Dan was an egotistical control-freak. He wasn’t even a customer and here he was, trying to tell her how to run her business. And now there was a line forming behind him.

“Listen, do you want something or not?”

This time his eyes didn’t wander. They just honed right in on hers, and she felt a jolt. She wasn’t sure of what—recognition? Lust, at least. Definitely lust.

Oh, he wanted something.

She would be happy to give it to him.

BRAVA BOOKS are published by

 

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Copyright © 2013 Kathy Love

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6589-0

 

 

First electronic edition: November 2013

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-7914-9
ISBN-10: 0-7582-7914-0